The Moorlands

Oh, sorrowful a pretty grave
As she stands upon the mire
What fanciful tears that she gave
Her face be shrouded with wire

Her daughter she sees buried
The last remaining barrier
For now they could be married
Her young and virile lover

Waiting for her child to grow
The doting, careful mother
Only the wiser is to know
Those instincts sometimes falter

She would spy them on the moors
Like rabbits they would tumble
Listen behind padded doors
Her thorns would sprout like brambles

So secretly creeping to his chamber
She cast her legs asunder
Like a fox he pounced upon her
What a cruel and wicked mother

But her daughter’s love did flow
For him, she could not release
The mother then did know
The daughter should be deceased

And tied the string atop the stairs
She asked her to fetch the cotton
To watch her child’s golden hair
Fall on the stone at the bottom

No one heard her dreadful scream
In so bleak a desolate place
That the plan went like a dream
She pulled a foul and wretched face

Now she stands veiled in black
But in her heart she sings
As she slowly turns her back
The moorland creatures spring